


i'll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams)

by girl0nfire



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: (So Can Ales Kot tbqh), Black Widow (2014) #8, Ed Brubaker Can Kiss My Ass, F/M, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Marvel 616 (Freeform), Marvel Can't Get Their Shit Together So I FTFY, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Natasha Romanov-centric, Nightmares, Post-Black Widow Hunt, Post-Winter Soldier #14, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5693320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hearts always break. And so we bend with our hearts. And we sway. But in the end, what matters is that we loved and lived."</p><p>Natasha Romanov remembers, slowly.  And like with most things, destruction is easy; rebirth is not.</p><p>(Canon Fix-It for Ed Brubaker's Winter Soldier arc "Black Widow Hunt.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My BuckyNat Secret Santa 2015 gift for [natalieroleplays](http://www.natalieroleplays.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Major, incredible thanks to the village it took to help me write this fic: [flash0flight](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight), [schlicky](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky), & [saturnmeetsmercury](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/jarofhearts). These wonderful ladies listened to my non-stop whining, read and re-read, cheer-led, and basically held my hand for this whole thing, it wouldn't exist without them.

_“Who the hell is_ **_Bucky_** _?!” her words slice through the air, carried on the sharp twang of Clint’s bowstring, stinging like an echo through frozen water, rippling out from Leo’s shattered-glass laugh, her hair roiling around her bloodred and your heart stalls in your chest -_

_You’ve never, ever, ever wanted to be afraid of her because she’s never once been afraid of you but in the second it takes for her blood to bloom scarlet in the silent night air you remember what they’d whisper about the Black Widow:_

**_No man can survive her._ **  

+ 

**[Prepare for Re-Entry]**

**[Estimated Time of Arrival: 14:00 LOCAL TIME]**

**[Estimated Intersection Point: SHIELD HELICARRIER BRAVO, Intergalactic Docking Station Charlie, United States Airspace: New York City]**

The words scroll sickly green across the dark glass visor of Bucky’s helmet as he rouses from the final round of hypersleep, the last nightmare’s cold sweat still gathering on his brow, the automated injection of adrenaline that woke him reverberating like a kick to the chest.

“Welcome back, Barnes,” Daisy Johnson’s voice in his ear, warm and teasing and too familiar for the way he feels right now, like every syllable uttered through the helmet’s wired-in speaker system is an unwanted touch.  He answers with a grunt, hopefully forgiven by the fact that he’s just spent the last month on ice in a chamber the SHIELD scientists _assure him_ isn’t based on Soviet plans, a retort sticking to the sour, thick taste in his mouth.

“Situation report?”

“Nick Fury is dead,” he offers, final and flat like the old man’s last words had been, and he can’t even convince himself that they don’t ring hollow.

“And m’good and goddamn tired of cleaning up his messes.”

+

There’s a cathedral, in St. Petersburg -

Trinity Cathedral, famous in its resilience.  It stood standing through every quake of Russia’s foundations, every change in its regimes; its walls even withstood Stalin himself, surviving as a Soviet warehouse in a time where all holy places were destroyed.

Until it burned.

Natasha folds the morning’s paper in half, bringing it closer to look at the picture, smoldering grayscale and pixelated ashes.  Liho picks his way across the kitchen table on silent paws, pausing to sniff delicately at her cup of tea before brushing his face against the edge of the page, sending it rippling, the smoke rising in wisps from the charred beams almost alive for the briefest of seconds.

_Governor Valentina Matviyenko pledged to restore the cathedral within the shortest time possible, pledging to allocate 30 million rubles (at press, valued at approximately $408,585.30) this year on preparations to rebuild the cathedral._

Abandoning the paper to scratch the small white spot beneath Liho’s chin, Natasha watches his tail curl curiously before he jumps gracefully from the tabletop into her lap, curling up contentedly.  She reaches for the paper again, taking a sip of tea as she finishes the article, lingering on the final line.

_“We’ll rebuild it,” Governor Matviyenko said.  “We’ll always rebuild it.  Some things should never be allowed to be forgotten.”_

+


	2. chapter one: i’ll be home for christmas, you can plan on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  here’s something i remember from physics  
> (apart from that inappropriate crush i had  
> on the teacher):  
> there’s only so much energy in the universe.  
> it breaks down and breaks apart and attaches itself  
> and reattaches itself but it never grows or shrinks.  
> finite. kind of like fossil fuels.  
> (everyone knows how finite those are, right?  
> yeah, even them. they just don’t care.)  
> so here’s the cool part:  
> your screams were a planet orbiting once,  
> the sing of your fist through the air  
> might have been the measured shriek  
> of the twenty third knife into julius caesar’s side.  
> the way you flick your hair back over your shoulder  
> might have been the sink of eve’s teeth into the apple.  
> interconnectedness. bullshit business strategies  
> have a funny kind of truth as it turns out.  
> the way you walk was the crawl of a glacier and  
> you’re only ever borrowing sound waves,  
> never owning them. (what if loan sharks  
> wanted those back too?)  
>  **i’m off-point. what i partly want to say is**  
>  **that i really hope those wildfires are going to be**  
>  **the press of your arms around me eventually.**  
>  **i don’t even mind if they’re gunshots in between.**  
> 
> 
> \- Elisabeth Hewer

“Is it imperative to my personal safety?”

There’s something - not  _ sad _ , maybe dejected is the word - in Maria’s eyes as she lingers in the doorway of Natasha’s hospital room.  She’d hit the button that fogged the security glass the moment she’d entered, so for all the room’s windows it’s only the two of them, the two of them and the - goddamn  _ elephant  _ in the room, the -  _ god, her head hurts - _

“Maria.”

Natasha works to keep her voice even, fidgeting with the fraying hem of the thin green blanket draped over her legs.  She’s trying so hard to resist the urge to just get up and  _ leave _ \- she can, Maria made that clear, that there’s nothing technically  _ wrong  _ \- 

“No,” Maria’s answer is measured, delicate,  _ political _ and Natasha would hate it if she wasn’t certain that, in Maria’s position, she’d do precisely the same.

“No, but - “

“Does it affect my ability to do my job?  Are my covers compromised?”

Maria sighs quietly, taking another step into the room, her hands coming to rest on the foot of Natasha’s hospital bed, beside the heavy chart that’s filled with a hundred variations of the word  _ amnesia _ , over and over and over as if naming it will make her  _ remember _ , as if -

“Natasha,” Maria bows her head for a moment, finally looking back up to meet Natasha’s eyes, and this time, they’re clear.

“No, and - no, but - SHIELD has the most cutting-edge technology, if you want us to  _ try _ , we can - “

(Natasha’s head twinges again, pain singing electric across her brow, and there is  _ nothing _ that will put her back in that chair, there is  _ nothing _ , there is nothing and  _ no one  _ important enough to willingly open her mind to another intrusion, to allow herself to be - )

“ _ No _ .”

+

What is it about Nick Fury showing up every single time Bucky’s life gets shittier?

The man’s got a gift, Bucky’ll give him that.

And sure, maybe a mission is what he needs right now, maybe licking his wounds in a filthy bar isn’t the best use of his time and talents, but Bucky’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound like a good idea right about now.  But then, very few things do - 

(Tesla looks at the star on his arm, black-and-red and heavier than any other has been, and when she asks him about mourning, he thinks, for the first time, maybe he’s talking to somebody who gets it.)

+

Pushing the blanket away, Natasha swings her legs over the edge of the hospital cot, letting her feet dangle a few inches above the undoubtedly cold tile floor.  She grips the edge of the thin mattress, willing the gathering headache away, letting her head hang if only for the momentary privacy provided by the curtain of her hair.

(What if she doesn’t  _ want _ to remember?  What if what she can’t remember is worse than what she  _ does _ , what if what’s been taken is more blood, more violence, more staring empty eyes, what if this is a blessing in disguise, because she’d give  _ anything _ to forget Jasper’s final words and yet - )

“If it’s - listen - “   
  
Natasha finally gathers herself enough to look over her shoulder at Maria, even if she can’t seem to take a breath deep enough, even if she’s not certain she wants to see what’s written on the other woman’s face.  So what, if this - isn’t Natasha  _ allowed _ to be stubborn, sometimes?

Why won’t they just  _ let her be selfish _ \- 

“If I can work, if I can  _ move on _ , then I want to, I can’t - “ the word catches, buried beneath another too-shallow breath, and Natasha  _ hates this _ , ‘can’t’ isn’t a word she likes using, there’s  _ nothing _ she can’t - “whatever it is, whatever he - whatever Leo took, I’m not fighting for it, if it’s not fighting for me.”

And it - they? Them? -  _ it _ would’ve had plenty of time.  She’s been here for three days, under endless unwelcome surveillance from SHIELD’s finest, answering the same questions over and over as if every single one of them hadn’t  _ gotten the point _ the  _ first fucking time _ -

(No, she’s not missing anything.  No, she doesn’t feel imbalanced.  No, she can’t ‘feel a void’.  Yes, she’s  _ tired of answering questions _ , especially when every single one means ‘are you still a time bomb?’)

+

Falling is easy.

(He’s done it enough.)

The explosion rips apart teal and blue above his head and the ocean envelops him, cold and quiet and maybe it’s finally his time, maybe he should just close his eyes - 

(“ _ Hey now, loverboy - we don’t have all day _ .”)

Except always, every moment, she’s there behind his eyes, scarlet-gold-sunlight-smiling and falling is easy, falling is  _ too  _ easy - 

(Don’t let go don’t let go don’t let go.)

Letting go isn’t.

+

“You should at least make a follow-up appointment with psych - “

Maria sounds very much like she knows how well the suggestion’s going to go over, but like she has to offer it anyway.

Maybe it makes her feel better.

Natasha lets out a short, bitter laugh, finally letting her feet settle on the frigid floor.

“You know,” standing up, Natasha turns to face Maria a final time, and it’s not Maria’s fault, Natasha knows that, but maybe she doesn’t care, maybe she  _ deserves _ one chance to just - 

“I can’t feel the wound, Maria, what fucking good is tearing it open going to do?”

Brushing past her, Natasha slams the button on the wall that unfogs the glass, flagging down an orderly and poking her head out of the door.  This conversation is over, because she’s tired of having it, she just wants this to be  _ over _ , why can’t all of this just be -

“Get me something to wear,” it comes out as an order, and perhaps that’s why the orderly skitters off before Natasha can finish the thought, already hating herself for giving into her temper, for giving into the frustration and dark discomfort that’s tangled tight beneath her skin, pressing hard between her shoulder blades, thudding against her temples.

“Natasha - “

If nothing else, Natasha should be thankful for the fact that Maria seems to know the conversation’s over.  She stops a final time, seeking out Natasha’s eyes before she sweeps out the door, a wordless goodbye and something like an apology, but as she leaves, Natasha can’t help but wonder if anyone can look at her anymore without seeing Jasper’s sallow face.

(She knows _she_ can’t.)

+

Bucky listens to Maria’s voicemail five and a half times.

_ “She’s decided not to pursue further memory retrieval.  You know I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d hope that you’d respect her wishes and try to make this as easy as possible for the both of you.” _

In other words - 

Get gone.

(He can do that.  He’s good at that.)

Their safe houses all operated on the same secure server network, something Natasha coordinated herself in case either of them ever needed intel or documents and couldn’t get to where the hard copies were stored.  Getting into the network is easy - of course it is, it’s not like she’d have thought to remove his credentials, she - 

( _ She’s better off without me. _ )

Years of photos, electronic communications, clips of video, IDs, travel documents in a dozen aliases, a thousand facsimiles of her smiling face so bright on the screen and Bucky would give  _ every single one _ without hesitation to see the real thing one last time.

Two days later, Bucky takes out a safety deposit box in Red Hook, Brooklyn, under  _ Barnes, Rebecca _ and mails Steve the only key.

Bucky can’t articulate how glad he is that Steve never asks what’s stored on the solitary flash drive locked inside.

+

Even with Maria’s assurances that whatever was taken isn’t integral to her personal safety, Natasha doesn’t bother with any of her old places, choosing instead to take the small stash of clothes and weapons left on SHIELD property and sign a lease on a new flat downtown.  She knows better than most how far old ghosts can reach, even if every day she wakes still feeling no loss slowly convinces her that whatever is gone was never that important, anyway.

Besides, there’s something comforting about a close-knit neighborhood of people speaking in familiar languages, a sense of belonging that she can pretend extends to her, at least for a little while.

The cat is a surprise, but - for now, the company is welcome.

And it’s not like she’s adopting it.

( _ Liho _ \- 

The dark, evil creature that haunts old children’s stories, an ancient beast of misfortune that will cling to your neck until you drown yourself trying to regain your freedom, the echo that follows just behind your footsteps and says  _ I’m not going anywhere _ because, once, you invited him in.)

+

At some point, Bucky’s going to have to admit to himself that maybe two-almost-three space missions in a row  _ might _ fall under the category of ‘running away from his problems’.

Now, though?  Waiting for the hypersleep drugs to kick in for some wild goose chase across the galaxy after a corpse that basically amounts to a set of magic eyeballs?

Probably not the time.

But  _ goddamn _ he hates this part - 

The hypersleep tubes in the SHIELD-issue spacecrafts are all the same, slender glass coffins that are probably fine for anybody who hasn’t spent half their life inside one against their will, but he can’t get comfortable, he never can, not least because he knows the moment the sedatives kick in he’s going to be a prisoner inside his own head again, he’s - 

He’ll be locked in with - 

He’s - 

_ Of course another you exists in another galaxy. _

**_Of course_** _he does._

_ Honestly, you’re not even surprised by how fantastical - it is a dream, right?  Is it real?  Oh god, not that again, not - no, it’s not real, it’s -  _

_ Breathe. _

_ Old-You is saying something, he’s - there are screens, he’s pointing, he’s -  _

_ Damn. _

_ Is that  _ **_really_ ** _ what you’re gonna look like forty years from now? _

_ “Look, you have to  _ **_look_ ** _ , boy - “ _

_ He’s gesturing like it’s the most important thing in the universe, your attention to these screens, like he’s got something to tell you that you don’t already know, like all that bullshit about space being infinite and time being an endless circle is real and you’re missing it, you’re missing the  _ **_point_ ** _ , what’s the goddamn  _ **_point_ ** _ \-  _

_ It’s you. _

_On every screen, it’s you: old, young, whole and not-so, happy, miserable, dying, running, fighting,_ ** _alive_** _, a thousand yous from a thousand worlds and he’s pointing, he’s saying something, he’s trying to make you_ ** _listen_** _but -_

**_She’s there._ **

_ In every world, she’s there. _

_ You’re fifteen and you’re holding hands at a bubblegum-pink high school dance you’re ancient and her scarlet hair is streaked through with golden-grey and she looks like her laugh is mostly cough but you’re both grinning you’re making love in Paris with the rain thundering outside you’re knocking elbows inside a frozen-white sniper’s nest with the Moscow skyline spiraling behind you’re kissing at midnight because it’s gotta be New Years and she’s there she’s  _ **_there_ ** _ she’s -  _

_ Old-You is lecturing you on Patience but there are tears in your eyes Old-You says something about Destiny like it’s supposed to be capitalized and - _

+

Hill’s mission requests dry up, but Isaiah’s don’t, and maybe Natasha likes it better that way.  Maybe one-and-dones and easy jobs are what she needs right now.  She still doesn’t feel quite like she’s back in the SHIELD swing of things anyway, and who knows how much of that is internal pressure, but - 

Work keeps her busy, keeps her head clear, keeps her from dwelling on  _ everything else _ .

(Leo’s voice, high and grating, the terrifying, unsteady old-country lilt to his English that was evidence of how poor a sleeper agent he would have been -

She remembers kneeling, remembers his cold, clammy hand on her face; she remembers the dull ache of new pointe shoes, the applause of a crowded concert hall, and she can’t escape the helicarrier filled with echoing screams, the burned-raw memory of washing the blood from her hands as he laughed.)

Sometimes, in the middle of sleepless nights she’ll crack the window to invite Liho inside, making space for him beside her on the pillow and she’ll tell him the stories she remembers, the good ones, the ones that prove to her how full her life has been, brick by brick reminding herself of the solidness instead of the maybe-emptiness.

(She tells him about the trenches half-filled with dirty snow and blood, the soft edges of Nikolai’s voice as he tied a silken  _ I love you _ around her finger, the bite of the cold and the unquenchable warmth that spread through her with every flutter in her belly and Liho sleeps curled against her stomach, burrowed under the covers and Natasha dreams, peacefully, of spring-fragrant roses and gentle, everlasting embraces.)

It’s been weeks, and still she feels no loss; she remembers every kind word offered to her, she remembers her friends and the family she’s built for herself now, she remembers days filled with more laughter than she could’ve ever hoped for, bent over a tiny, unfairly shallow grave beneath a tree, and Liho listens, always, as her memories spin out in the silence.

(She tells him about the Room, the little girls, how they took things from her like tearing swaths off wallpaper from rotting walls and she realizes, as Liho’s tail curls idly under her chin, that this is not that.

She is whole.  She wants to be.  She is.  She will be.  She is whole.)

Maria asks her how she’s been over expensive coffee and overcooked eggs and Natasha thinks of the previous night’s dreamless sleep and the decades of unblemished good and bad and the cracked-but-unbroken circle of her memories and she means it when she smiles - 

“I’m fine.”

+

Bucky wakes just as they breach orbit, gasping, and he can taste salt and blood and -

(Was it real?)

It - 

(It can’t be real.)

It must’ve been - next time, no sedatives, no matter how long the trip, he can’t - 

(“ _ I just needed a moment.” _ )

Suddenly, running away doesn’t seem so appealing anymore.

+

(She has always said, that eventually, they will all burn in dreams.)

(It takes time, as most things do, but it is not long before the flames come for her.)

+


	3. chapter two: please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree

“ _Tasha_! You made it - “ 

Sharon’s smiling brightly and wearing a brilliantly-sequined red-and-green sweater when she opens the front door to Steve’s apartment, the biometric security protocols in the alleyway deactivated for the night so guests can come and go as they pleased.  Not that the apartment isn’t teeming with enough Avengers and other heroes to easily stave off any sort of ill-timed attack, but they were all, clearly, more focused on making mischief of their own.

“Yeah, thanks for coming,” Steve takes Natasha’s coat as soon as she’s inside, and he’s dressed in a loudly blue-tinseled sweater patterned with snowflakes, clashing magnificently with Sharon when she slips in close to his side to let Natasha walk further into the loft’s large living room.  She almost feels underdressed, having apparently missed the part of the invitation that suggested she wear something - should she say  _ suitably festive _ ? - but she notices a few of the other guests are in their usual street clothes, Tony’s black turtleneck only making the electric red nose of the knitted reindeer on Clint’s sweater glow more garishly.  

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Natasha smiles, nodding to the both of them before she lets her eyes travel through the room, catching Maria waving at her from one of the large couches pushed back against the exposed brick of the wall and waving back.  She’s nearly halfway over when Sam’s laugh floats out from the kitchen, curling over and around the tinkling of glasses and the rusty sound of Steve’s ‘vintage’ oven door opening and closing, an almost-familiar chuckle spilling out just behind the punchline of Sam’s joke.

“--and  _ boy are my arms tired _ \- “

There it is again, rough and warm, and Natasha bypasses Maria with a placating gesture, poking her head into the kitchen to greet Sam first, a laugh startling out of her when she sees him dressed in one of those joke aprons printed with Steve’s uniform, a turkey baster in one hand, a beer in the other, clicking bottles with another man who’s got his back to her.  Sam looks up, finding her eyes over the other man’s shoulder, his face splitting into a welcoming grin.

“Nat, hey - “

Natasha moves further into the kitchen, enticed by the warm, fragrant scent of food and the beer Sam holds out for her, pressing the cold bottle into her hand before she indulges him in a one-armed hug.  “Hi, Sam,” she brushes a kiss on his cheek, his smile still bright in the edge of her vision, and it’s only after Sam releases her again that Natasha notices the other man has turned around, too, but he’s hanging back, leaning against the counter and nursing his beer.

He doesn’t look too different from when they’d last crossed paths in Prague; his hair’s a bit longer but Natasha’s never paid much notice to it except to wonder why he doesn’t just keep it neat like he’d used to, back when they all thought Steve was - 

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” she offers, seeking out his eyes if only because he seems so hesitant to look back at her, his smile tight when he finally drains his beer, abandoning the bottle on the counter.  They don’t see one another often; at least, not as often as they used to, considering their time spent traveling in the same Avenging circles has somewhat lessened.  But still, the beat he takes to return her gaze chafes, if for no other reason than because it seems very much like he’s choosing his words carefully.  Bucky doesn’t do that with other people, at least not that she’s noticed, and there’s nothing Natasha hates more than feeling like people are circling her on eggshells.

“Merry Christmas, Nat - “

Sam takes a rather deliberate step away, fussing with the timer on the oven, and for a moment it’s just her and Bucky, a pace or two between them, and  _ why won’t he look her in the eye _ \- 

Instead, he closes half of the distance between them, although for the life of her Natasha can’t decide if that’s better or worse.  With a flick of his left wrist, he pries the cap from her beer, flipping it into his palm and trying on another smile, less uncomfortable now even if his eyes never really settle on hers.

“How’d your leg heal up?”

+

_ Steve’s apartment feels - _

_ It feels empty, drafty, the brick walls bare, the rooms full of ghosts, wisps of smoke, whispers and muffled footsteps and you’ve got to move off the couch, shut off the television -  _

_ (CNN is blaring overloud, the screen filled with scrolling white letters, dizzying, muted flashes of red-white-blue, death, destruction, despair, a Captain America who doesn’t belong, or does he?  Is he Captain America at all?  Where is Steve?)   _

_ “-- and were  _ **_all_ ** _ saved by the New Captain America.  Our overnight polling shows - “ _

_ Suddenly, all at once there are arms, invisible, heavy, stifling, holding you back,  _ **_no_ ** _ , a solid presence at your side and darkness gapes where a mouth would be and -  _

_ The absence of sound, the blistering chill of silence, the scraping squeal of erased cassette tape and then the smoke rolls in once more, a glistening gray fog, swirling around the solidness that’s still weighing you down, holding you back, giving it shape, the curve of a shoulder, the slope of a neck, a face -  _

Liho’s tail flicks out of view as he drops off the bed on silent paws, chirruping his displeasure at having his sleep disturbed on his way out the bedroom window and leaving Natasha tangled in sweat-damp sheets in a bedroom that suddenly-always-never feels emptier than it had before she fell asleep.

+

“Come on, Nat!”

There’s a laugh tinting Clint’s voice as he throws it over his shoulder, the words blossoming into steam in the frigid morning air.  The rhythm of their feet hitting the pavement is the only sound surrounding them in the early-morning quiet of Tomkins Square Park, echoing, muffled, over the snow-dusted grass that lines both sides of the running path.  She’s fallen out of their usual step, the comfortable matched strides eluding her this particular morning, and of course, Clint notices.

He always does.  And that’s - well, it’s almost always a good thing.

“I know you’re not dragging ass just to make me feel good, so - “

Turning so he can face her, jogging backwards just to show off, Clint smiles crookedly at her around a ragged breath, the edge of his black knit hat sliding further down his brow and covering the white butterfly bandages holding his temple together.  He’s been busy lately, she knows, with his building and his new neighborhood, but even if their shared workouts have become fewer and more far-between, Natasha should know better than to think she can pull anything over on him.

Damn.

There are few people with whom Natasha’s gut instinct is to offer the truth; that circle seems to grow smaller with each passing season, but then, Natasha knows she does her best work in the smallest of spaces.  Regardless, Clint is still one of that select few, and today’s truth isn’t particularly damning, anyway.

“Slept like shit,” Natasha replies finally, slowing to a walk, the shivering wind whipping through the park cutting right through her jacket.  And if  _ that’s _ not an understatement - 

“But it’s fine - “

There’s - for a moment, Natasha catches herself wistful, wishing not for the first time that there was someone who could just  _ understand _ .  Not that Clint doesn’t; not that Sharon doesn’t, that Maria doesn’t, but for every solitary night spent in the solace of her own company, Natasha can’t help but wonder how it is that she’s managed to let so many people in and still feel as if none of them have truly gotten close.  But then - perhaps she’s asking too much, for someone to get it, for a person to understand what it’s like to live like she has, for as long as she has, to have seen what she’s seen, and - 

All told, she really has nothing to complain about.  That the contents of her dreams are unrecognizable, that she feels an emptiness she hasn’t felt since the discovery that the Red Room had torn careless swaths through her mind -

These are inconsequential fears.  These are hardly fears at all.  

She chose them.  She  _invited_ them.

“Really,” Natasha offers Clint a half-smile when he pauses to step in closer, his hands braced on his knees, making it obvious that he’d been pushing so hard to show off that he’s all but knocked the wind out of himself - 

“I’m fine.”

+

_ It’s pouring in Paris, because  _ **_of course_ ** _ it is, your first day off in  _ **_months_ ** _ \-  _

_ The cobblestones are slick, water dripping in rivulets off restaurant canopies, the sky a moody purplegrey and it’s  _ **_beautiful_ ** _ because it doesn’t matter, Paris will always be beautiful, it will always carry a lovely melancholy weight and welcome you with open arms, it’s -  _

_ You tip your face up, the shower of rain running over your skin, watercolor warmth dancing across your cheeks, and you look up look up look up into the tunnel of raindrops, the knotted dark clouds circling the Eiffel Tower, it’s -  _

_ Darkness, solid and overbearing, all-encompassing and blocking your vision, looming over you and breaking the sheet of rain until you realize how cold it really is, shivering slightly in the damp air without the warmth of the rain dancing on your skin, what is this,  _ **_who_ ** _ - _

_ The shadow leans in, moving, smothering, what could be a caress if it wasn’t stifling, and the city falls away, all warmth gone as the shadow reaches out, tendrils curling serpentine around your neck, words that aren’t words echoing underwater -  _

+

Natasha never liked Anderson Cooper, anyway.

And it’s probably too cold to be on the roof, probably too late to be finishing a bottle of wine without a coat, probably too late to - 

Natasha wonders how long she can tell herself that  _ alone _ isn’t lonely, that she works better on her own, that she doesn’t  _ need anything  _ or  _ anyone _ before she finally admits that the Black Widow’s particular brand of persuasion doesn’t hold power over her.  

A snowflake wings its way from above, a single, perfect bit of frozen lace settling gracefully on the scarlet surface of her wine, heralding another snowfall, another frozen night, another silent, freezing morning in a city blanketed in white.  It’s an artificial quiet, frigid and emotionless, beautiful only to those who haven’t spent their lives in cages made of ice.

Swirling her glass, Natasha watches it slowly dissolve, the motion still sending a twinge of pain through her shoulder, upsetting the split knuckles of her hand.  There’s something to be said, for the delicate way it melts, for the strength webbed into the crystal-patterned ice, but still, alone, it doesn’t last for long.

Perhaps nothing does.

The dreams are coming more often, and it’s not their content that’s worrisome as much as their  _ truth _ \- Natasha remembers all these things, she  _ knows them _ , she remembers Steve’s apartment, she’s lost count of how often she’s been to Paris, but that irrepressible, uncomfortable  _ nothing _ is - 

Natasha is no stranger to shadows, but this?  Sleeping beside a shadow she hasn’t met?

Downing the last of her glass in a single, large sip, Natasha tips her head back to look up into the velvet darkness of the midnight sky, met with another soft scatter of snowflakes.  There’s no warmth, but then, she isn’t sure that’s what she needs right now.

Her phone vibrates in the pocket of her sweater, one of Isaiah’s many numbers flashing across the screen, and Natasha answers, grateful for, if nothing else, the distraction.

+

_ The sheets are tangled, the windows thrown open, and  _ **_finally_ ** _ you’re not alone, finally there’s a solid presence beside you, gentle fingers curled in your hair, what about a face, there should be a face - _

_ Smooth, warm skin turns to biting cold metal under your hands, and you grab for the sheet, eyes snapping open, curious, not-quite-desperate, you’re not alone you aren’t alone you  _ **_can’t_ ** _ be alone - _

**_Who_ ** _ - _

_ The shape of a body beside you, the rise and fall of sleep-loose breaths buried beneath the sheet until you lift it, until you tug it away and - _

Natasha wakes choking on a long, labored inhale, blankets twisted around her legs, the other half of her bed empty, the sheets cold beneath her searching hand.

+

The Christmas Market in Union Square is bustling, packed full of tourists and city-dwellers alike in the final days leading up to the holiday, each stall offering something different, from festive food and drink to ornaments, decorations, jewelry, toys -

Natasha has always loved this part of Christmas in New York; the markets, ice skating, the brilliantly lit shop windows.  Each plays a part in making the holidays feel special and unique, and that’s one of the first things she remembers allowing herself to enjoy, when she’d gotten comfortable here.  While she certainly hasn’t spent every Christmas comfortably at home, she’s tried her best each year to make certain she’s had time to celebrate in her own way, and for the last several years that’s meant an afternoon spent here.

Nursing the steaming hot chocolate she’d bought as soon as she’d walked into the wooden village built into the middle of the park, Natasha takes her time browsing the stalls with no particular goal.  Last year, she found Sharon’s Christmas gift here, the year before that, a set of blown-glass whiskey tumblers for Maria, so while she’s already managed to find most of the things on her (very short) list of gifts this year, it doesn’t stop her from taking her time, enjoying just quietly shopping more than anything else.  

Pausing at a stall filled with hand-painted glass ornaments, Natasha finds herself drawn to a particular one, a delicate white star housed in a black velvet box, a deep red ribbon for hanging dangling when she picks it up look more closely.  It’s beautiful - each year, Natasha sees something like this, a small decoration or ornament that makes her promise herself that  _ next year _ she’ll decorate, she’ll put up a small tree, she’ll  _ do something _ , but - 

Another year has passed, and still, her new apartment lies mostly empty, but even so, perhaps she could just display it - 

“Nat? Hi - ”

A familiar voice drags her out of her considerations, and Natasha looks up to find a warm pair of brown eyes on her face.

“Bucky?”  He’s smiling serenely, or at least from what she can see, most of his jaw obscured by the knot of a grey woolen scarf.  There’s snow tangled in his hair, and it’s -

There’s snow tangled in his hair - 

Shaking her head slightly, Natasha answers his smile with a wry one of her own, replacing the small box on the shelf before her.  

  
“Hi,” she continues, angling herself to accommodate another wave of tourists edging their way into the small booth, a particularly determined man knocking right into her and catching her off-balance so that she knocks into Bucky’s side with a small huff.  She can feel him stiffen, almost involuntarily, but his arm comes up to shield her immediately, his hand catching the man again before he can bump into them twice.

“ _Hey_ \- watch it, pal - “

Bucky’s eyes flick down to her face again, ignoring the offended look on the man’s face, and something flits across his features that Natasha isn’t sure was meant for her to see.

“Are you alright?”

His arm is still looped protectively around her, and he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s the one holding them together now; he’s solid, his chest warm where they’re pressed together still, and Natasha isn’t sure why the answer is difficult, why suddenly the market’s prevailing scent of leather and pine feels more familiar than it has any right to be - 

Clearing her throat, Natasha holds his eyes for a moment that feels much too long, and for someone who’s comfortable anywhere, Natasha hates that this isn’t the first time she found herself questioning that around  _ him _ .  
  
“I’m fine.”

+


	4. chapter three: christmas eve will find me where the love-light gleams

Four days before Christmas, Isaiah sends her to Japan, and it’s textbook - 

(She’d be bored, if boredom was a luxury she could afford.)

Sixteen hours later and Natasha holds her gun to the mark’s head - it’s easy, too easy, it was easy because  _ she’s the best _ \- and he sneers at her, all teeth, and spits, “if only your  _ Captain _ could see you now - “

(Before the light flickers from his eyes for the final time, Natasha watches the shock dawn on his face, as if he was  _ so sure _ that barb held poison, and that she would crumple.)

( _ “-- and were  _ **_all_ ** _ saved by the New Captain America.  Our overnight polling shows - “ _ )

The flight back to New York takes decades, and each second winds the dark feeling of confusion more tightly inside her gut.  She fades into fitful sleep, the drone of the plane’s engines nothing but empty, white noise.

+

_ The sky is infinite. _

_ The sky is infinite and the jump rig encircling your waist will keep you from falling, will keep you afloat until you just disappear, will keep you adrift as you swim through the blue-black darkness, laughing, tripping through the air, each star a breath away, the wind whistling through your hair, flicking across the edges of your grin, this is  _ **_amazing_ ** _ \-  _

_ This is what it’s like to be  _ **_free_ ** _ , this is what it’s like to fly, this is what it’s like to - _

_ Your earpiece crackles, interrupting the satisfying rush of the drop, surely with incoming instructions, Sitwell, maybe, so you listen, straining -  _

_Nothing but a scream of feedback, an electric shock of discordant sound sending the back of your neck prickling and you’re lost and it’s any second now, any second now and the teleportation rig will kick into gear and then you hear it, you feel it, the_ ** _whoosh_** _of passing weight, the solidness that comes from another body in close proximity, and you are not alone,_ ** _you are not alone_** _-_

_ Suddenly the sky is not just dark, it’s empty, oppressive, closing in fast and your head is pounding, the static spewing from your earpiece swirling with the ghosts of voices and you’re tumbling, you’re out of control, you can’t you can’t you -  _

_ The device snaps to life and the bottom drops out of your stomach because soon you’ll be there and  _ **_you will not be alone_ ** _ - _

+

Natasha doesn’t suffer fools, and she doesn’t suffer ignorance, especially her own.  There’s a  _ reason _ why Natasha has always considered information the only real key - information is power and other people’s want of it is what kept her business for decades, before - 

The first safe house is empty, dust dampening her footsteps as she hurries into the bedroom, eyes only for the safe inside the closet.

(Empty.)

The second is just as empty, the third torn down after a pipe had burst, the fourth, the fifth - 

(Empty, empty, empty, empty and the feeling of dread that fills the space left behind whispers hollowly,  _ are you certain you’re alone? _ )

+

She hasn’t accessed the secure server networks for weeks, not since she wiped her own non-essential files and transferred the most important travel documents and intel to her personal tablet, favoring portability in the first weeks of her work with Isaiah.

But - just like the houses, like the stories, like the  _ dreams _ , like her bed, like - 

It isn’t an absence, or rather, it isn’t a conspicuous one.  There isn’t anything  _ missing _ , as much as there are things obvious in their omission, holes she wouldn’t see if she wasn’t searching for someplace to hide.  Information has always been her highest form of security, her most treasured protection, and for her to have  _ nothing _ \- her  _ Captain _ ? Steve? - is like suddenly stepping close enough to a painting to see the brushstrokes.

She  _ isn’t _ missing anything.

She can’t miss it.

Because it’s  _ gone _ , this whole time she’s been searching for remnants,  _ stupid _ \- 

Whatever it was, it was  _ taken _ , all of it, completely and so seamlessly she never missed it, removed almost surgically, painstakingly, and there’s only one reason why Leo - drunk with his own power, poisoned by his own lust, frustrated by her denial, even while under his spell - would’ve gone to that level of trouble to hurt her, to hurt - 

Someone  _ else _ ?  Who the hell - 

( _ Someone who wouldn’t fight for you _ , the darkness whispers back.   _ Someone who doesn’t matter, because you didn’t matter enough.  Someone who is content being a story never retold _ .)

His vulnerability, as with most men educated by Department X, lies in his own perceptions of his power.  And he had - as so many before him - underestimated her.

This had never been about her.  Leo had played her for a pawn, and hedged his bet not knowing that she was, instead, the queen.

(The true legacy of the Red Room, to fall upon their pride and die, suffering, at the hands of their own weapons.)

Revenge does terrible things to a heart, Natasha knows this perhaps better than most.  It can make you sloppy, it can make you vulnerable, but most of all, it makes you weak.

It only takes two favors to arrange a visit to The Cage.

(And she should have known.  She should have  _ expected _ .  When the guards bring her to Leo’s solitary cell and his laugh is not echoing and his blood is seeping slowly across the concrete floor from the half-moon bite at his wrist - 

He knew he could no longer manipulate the pieces.)

Checkmate.

+

_ “ _ **_Stay away from me!_ ** _ ” your words scream through the air, nearly muffling the sharp twang of Clint’s bowstring, your pulse thudding in your ears and tangling with Leo’s shattered-glass laugh and he’s in your head, he’s inside your head and you can’t escape him and maybe you don’t want to and your heart stalls in your chest - _

_ Even behind the mask he’s instantly familiar and you’ve never, ever, ever been afraid of him before but the broken look in his eyes as Clint’s arrow buries itself in your calf is the closest you’ll ever want to come to watching him die again and his mouth is moving and you expect more silence, more of the ringing emptiness that’s filled your nightmares but his mouth is moving and -  _

_ “Natasha, please, it’s  _ **_me_ ** __ \- “  
__   
The knock at the door startles Natasha awake and in the heartbeat it takes for the scream to die in her throat the name echoes, over and over and over - 

“Hey Nat? It’s Bucky - “ 

Another knock, and a glance at the clock above the stove flashes  **_1:14_ ** and tells Natasha that she’d fallen asleep without wanting to, having spent the last two days doing anything to stay awake, willing the dreams away, searching her files, her hard drives,  _ everything _ , looking for just the right thread to tug to send Leo’s plan unraveling,  _ anything _ \- 

(It’s Christmas Day, and Buc - 

It’s Christmas Day, and _James_ is at her door, and this time last year they played hooky for his funeral and took his bike over the Brooklyn Bridge and by the third knock Natasha can feel something sliding into place, clicking just like the deadbolt on her front door.)

"I'm sorry to bother you, I just wanted to wish you a - "

“James?”

His greeting dies on his lips, silent shock dawning on his features, and Natasha feels something inside her sigh as everything settles, slowly, into place.

( _ Oh, there you are _ .)

What he’s doing here in the middle of the afternoon on Christmas Day she isn’t sure, she isn’t sure if she  _ cares _ , she isn’t sure of  _ anything _ except the way his smile unfolds, real for the first time in months, is like watching the sun rise on a night you weren’t sure you’d make it through.

And she - she remembers, always, the way words would fail him; he’s never been an eloquent man and she’s never once cared.  There’s a velvet box held in his outstretched hand, but he’s clearly forgotten it, the deep red ribbon peeking out alongside a tag with her name scrawled in his cramped handwriting and it’s - 

“Natalia?” He stumbles over her name like it’s rusted with disuse, like his mouth has forgotten the shape of it, like he’s  _ forced it to _ , and oh, they’ve done this before, remembered one another for the first time.

Liho bounds across the living room, prowling out the door with a growl that turns almost instantly into a purr, winding himself between James’ ankles and if Natasha wasn’t so certain a year had passed she could convince herself that a second hadn’t.  Reaching out, slowly, she takes the box from his hand, weighing it in her palm and she knows instantly what it is even before she lifts the lid: the glimmering crystal star, shimmering white and scarlet ribbon and he’s stumbling again, standing in the hallway waiting for an invitation like he’s ever, ever needed one and Natasha tears her eyes away from the box to meet his, savoring the warmth she finds there and realizing, only now, how much she’d missed it.

(How, how did she manage this long?)

“Please come in?”

+

She has so many questions, and not all of them are easy.

Bucky can’t take his eyes off her, even when the answers she demands - the answers she  _ deserves _ \- are hard to give.  Eventually, she reaches for his left hand, cradling it in both of hers, listening intently and really, even as he struggles with his words, he can’t even bring himself to feel anything but blindingly, dumbfoundingly grateful.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Natalia holds his eyes, a crease forming between her brows, and Bucky doesn’t have an answer, because nothing he can think of is good enough, nothing he can offer her is worth the year of lonely pain he caused her, nothing he can say will  _ ever _ be enough and what if that’s just it?

She has every right to hate him, she has every  _ right  _ to put him on the spot, to shake him and to rage and to chastise him for his selfishness, for putting his own pain above hers, for abandoning her like he’d promised to never do, and yet - 

<“I’m sorry.”>  

It’s the very best he has.

(She deserves better. She always did.)

<”If I wanted an apology, I’d ask for one,”> is all she returns, her eyes still running over his hand, gentle fingertips tracing the plates of his palm.  Every second she isn’t looking at him feels like a century of punishment on its own, but then - 

There isn’t anything he wouldn’t go through, for her.

A single scarlet wave falls over her forehead when she finally looks up at him, and he almost misses what she whispers next, so lost in the sea-glass green of her eyes, the only home he’s ever hoped to be welcomed back to.

“But don’t think you’re getting off that easily.”

(The one she gave him.)

There are so many things he didn’t let himself miss - the curve of her cheek when she laughs, the lock of hair that never lies flat at the nape of her neck, her matching trigger calluses ghosting over his shoulders, the way she looks in his pajamas on long overnights - but the way she  _ smiles _ , oh, wry and private and always, every single time, just for him?

That could be it.  That could be  _ everything _ .

Lost in thought, Bucky’s almost startled by the way she leans in closer, traveling the miles and miles of distance between them to touch her forehead to his.

“I’ll give you a lifetime to make it up to me.”

+


	5. epilogue

Paris is beautiful, always -

The hotel room windows are thrown wide open, the sounds of the revelers in the street below floating in, the night sky outside lit up red-white-blue as fireworks rain down over the Eiffel Tower; the whole city is celebrating, vibrating with energy and counting down the seconds until they can welcome the New Year, but - 

Bucky’s spent enough everlasting nights in space to know that the center of the universe isn’t a fixed point.  But tonight?

Tonight, the center of the universe is this:  
  
Natasha smiling into his mouth as the clock strikes twelve.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we deserve  
> a soft epilogue, my love.  
> We are good people  
> and we’ve suffered enough.
> 
> -Nikka Ursula, _Seventy Years of Sleep #4_  
> 


End file.
